


Stubborn

by WahlBuilder



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Fluff, Injury, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-06-12
Packaged: 2018-11-13 08:39:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11181093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WahlBuilder/pseuds/WahlBuilder
Summary: Monroe's favourite Overseer is injured, and everyone is worried.





	Stubborn

It was telling something about the city and changes that had occurred when Monroe walked down the hall of the Office of the High Overseer, his mask on his belt, and the Overseers gathering at the entrance to the High Overseer’s quarters were not surprised to see him. He wasn’t sure what it was supposed to tell, though.

‘Oh, it’s you, master Whaler!’ one of the Overseers turned to him, relief written clearly on his young face.

Monroe frowned, at him, at the gathering by the doors. The Overseers, half a dozen of them, were having a hushed, worried conversation, but Monroe didn’t reach for his blade—none of the Overseers were in a state of high alert.

‘What is going on?’ Monroe asked, his heart picking pace.

‘Master Whaler, you have to tell him!’ the young Overseer pleaded, and as much as Monroe was amused by how he was addressed, a sick knot was forming in his gut.

One of the other Overseers joined the young one. ‘Yes, you do. Only you can sway him.’

Monroe had to suppress the urge to snap at them—or to storm into Oleg’s quarters. ‘What the f—’ He caught himself as they winced, and said, ‘Explain to me. Please. Is the High Overseer hurt?’

‘Yes, but—’

He stormed into Oleg’s quarters. Breezed through the heavy doors past the study and straight into the bedroom, clutching his blade, the Mark sending electric shocks through his hand.

Oleg looked up at him and sighed. ‘Oh, wonderful. They have found you.’

Monroe realised he was trembling, frozen on the spot, his hand spasming on the hilt of his blade, his lungs filled with the salt of the Void. His eyes searching for injuries.

Oleg ashen—but calm, propped on several pillows, his hands resting on the coverlet. Despite the warmth of the night, fire was crackling in the fireplace, and in the trembling light Oleg looked like a ghost, with sunken cheeks dusted with stubble, and colourless eyes. The scar on his face was pale.

‘What happened?’ Monroe managed. He didn’t dare to move, only forced himself to relax his grip on the blade. Just a fraction.

Curtains billowed from salty wind, and Monroe had a thought that he had forgotten again to tell Oleg to close his windows. Someone might take a shot at him. For such a clever man he could be awfully reckless—but then, Monroe wanted to speak to him about his general self-destructive behaviour. Later.

Oleg looked down. His hands were so still Monroe wanted to crush them in his palms. Then finally Oleg’s face twisted, stopped resembling his uniform mask. ‘I was attacked.’

Monroe forced himself to breathe. He knew that, he had heard of that, and he knew it wasn’t anything serious—he wouldn’t have allowed anything serious to reach Oleg anyway. Had he miscalculated?

Oleg’s hands moved, too, plucking at the coverlet, and the knot in Monroe’s gut started to melt. ‘And?’ he urged.

‘I dispatched the attacker. And then…’ The coverlet was plucked so thoroughly that Monroe strode to the bed and put his right hand on Oleg’s, stilling his nervous fingers. Oleg sighed, still avoiding his gaze. ‘And then I tripped.’

Monroe’s fingers, gripping Oleg’s hands. ‘You tripped,’ he said flatly as a nightmare unfolded in his mind. Oleg wasn’t tall, so it hadn’t been that bad to fall. But they said he had been attacked on the steps of the Office. His coat—bless the horrible, thick woollen thing—would have cushioned the fall somewhat, protected him from friction burns.

The nightmare was so vivid that Monroe barely heard Oleg muttering, ‘And now they are fussing over it.’

‘What… what is broken?’ he croaked, loosening his grip. Too aware of Oleg’s fragility. He could crush these nervous fingers so easily.

‘Nothing. Just a few bruises. But it will be difficult to walk for some time.’

 _I will carry you wherever you want_ , Monroe almost said. _Or better, you will stay in bed._

‘Is it what they needed me for? Your brothers.’ It was awkward, standing like this, so Monroe sat down on the bed. He didn’t let go of Oleg’s hands. They were still in his grip.

‘They wanted you to talk me into using a cane,’ Oleg replied, his face twisted and his fingers twitching under Monroe’s hands. ‘I don’t need a cane.’

Now he understood why the Overseers were by the doors, but not by Oleg’s side. When Oleg was tired or in pain, he was easily irritable, and they didn’t want to fight with him and they had proceeded with their tactical withdrawal. Waiting for Monroe.

Bastards.

He smiled. ‘I’ll get you the most fanciful cane. With a blade.’ He imagined Oleg walking down the streets, gloomy and terrifying, a cane tapping on the cobblestones. Any gangster would flee from that sound alone.

Oleg swayed and leaned on Monroe’s chest, and, moving almost on its own, Monroe’s free hand touched Oleg’s head.

‘I’ll push you out of the window,’ Oleg murmured into his coat.

‘You won’t,’ Monroe grinned, playing with his hair.

It was all right.


End file.
